


Conflicts of Duty

by Magi_Silverwolf



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Burdens of leadership, Ethical Dilemmas, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Black Panther (2018), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers critical, Tony Stark Friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 13:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14106147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magi_Silverwolf/pseuds/Magi_Silverwolf
Summary: Shuri could absolutely create a replacement for the Captain America buckler. It would be simple, boring. It would be hardly any effort at all to work in improvements. After all, she knew her people’s most precious resource far better than a colonizer in the Forties had.She just didn’t want to.





	Conflicts of Duty

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.  
>  **Warnings:** This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers. Please utilize understanding of personal sensitivities before and while reading.  
>  **Author’s Note(s):** So, between the _Infinity War_ trailers and finally getting to see _Black Panther_ , I had a few ideas that needed to be written. As fair warning, Shuri is _not_ on Team Cap.

-= LP =-  
Conflicts of Duty  
-= LP =-  
“You've gotta stand your ground for freedom, beauty, truth, and love.” – _Moulin Rouge_  
-= LP =-

 

“Do you ask this as my brother or my king?”

 

Shuri spoke the words softly, her tone more serious than she typically used. She didn’t want to admit that as she progressed on her project, her confidence in the simplicity of the solution had changed. To verify that her algorithm could do as she proposed—as she had _bragged_ that it could—she had been forced to begin learning two different fields of science: neurology and psychology. Both fields were far removed from her preferred fields of programming and engineering. Given more time, she was certain that she would be successful in her goal of helping Sgt. Barnes regain his independent agency, but it would not be as quickly as she had previously projected.

 

On the other hand, the technology she already possessed allowed her to review a person’s memories from their perspective. Initially, she only had visual and audio information, but recently she had cracked the barrier for internal processing. She had spent _weeks_ reviewing the life of James Buchanan Barnes as intimately as the man himself had. She had witnessed truly awkward moments that made her question just how sane any boy or man could truly be and gave her a recurring case of _boys are icky_ feels. She also had seen some things which did not match the man she had believed Steve Rogers to be from the American movies she had watched with Baba.

 

As discreetly as possible, she had reached out to Dr. Stark. She had been expecting her request for information on the BARF to be rejected out of hand. At the very least, she was expecting to be questioned extensively or to have him demand regular updates, for him to _meddle_. Everything Steve Rogers and his compatriots had said in her presence about the man indicated that he was little more than a petulant child, prone to throwing tantrums and hoarding his possessions regardless of how many might benefit. Instead, he had been perfectly willing to send all his research to her, including the fab-specs for the device itself. The packet even included an impressive amount of studies and papers. He outlined his issue with making the device more available, which seemed to stem entirely from the power source being a really teeny arc reactor.

 

It was when she realized that he had included the fab-specs for _that_ where he moved from Tony Stark, billionaire white boy, to Dr. Tony Stark, holder of four doctorates and five honorary doctorates. Despite what her sources, both media and those who had worked alongside the man, had said, Stark had shared a closely guarded secret with her, had treated her as a fellow engineer and genius. He had fought against publicly sharing the technique for miniaturizing his father’s arc reactor; he had kept every version of the ones he had built out of anyone’s hands except for his. Yet he had, after a five-minute discussion, just sent her _everything_. Then he had told her what had gained her that level of trust.

 

“I worked with your father,” Stark had said, his voice sounding suspiciously thick with something. Her mother’s voice had that same quality occasionally. “He was… he was really _something_. Hated me but up front about it and why. No spin; no recriminations; no directives. I’ve come to appreciate that kind of honesty.” He paused to draw an audible breath. When he continued, his voice sounded stronger, more certain. “Your father had a vision, of how the world could possibly be, of how to fix something he had broken. I know how that looks on a person.

 

“Anyway, T’Chaka was one of the few on the panel willing to actually listen to the people meant to be governed by the Accords, so um, we ended up talking a lot. You know how that works. Inevitably, conversations shift, and other things come up. He mentioned you, his brilliant daughter who refused to quit tinkering even when she should have been in bed.” Dr. Stark had chuckled. It was a warm sound, not quite the same as Baba’s had been but similar enough to make her ache a little. “God, he couldn’t stop bragging, you know? Every time you or T’Challa could even remotely be connected to a topic, you were, and he was so, _so_ proud of everything you were doing, were leading others in doing.”

 

“That’s why you trust me more than your own leaders? Because my father was proud of me?”

 

“Well, that’s the grown up responsible thing to say and you should definitely use it as the main reason if anyone asks, but honestly? He mentioned a rant you went on about how Leia was the true Balance of the force and Luke was mostly just making messes like brothers do. Anyone who prefers the Ambassador over other characters is someone worth knowing. And the brother bit really reminded me of someone, so double the marks in your favor.”

 

Between all the chaos of Erik Stevens’ temporary coup, the fallout from it, and learning new subjects in order to help the first broken white boy T’Challa had brought her, she hadn’t been feeling generous as she continued sorting through Barnes’ memories. Part of her could recognize the hero from the American movies and shows she used to watch curled up next to Baba. She could see a man who had to fight to prove himself and never gave up trying. But she could also see how Steve Rogers had just never listened to the advice of others and made messes that just kept growing harder for others to clean up.

 

And he had used her grandfather’s gift to Howard Stark, a symbol of _trust_ and _promised loyalty_ , to do a lot of it. Dr. Stark had never brought up Siberia, not once, but she had seen it through Barnes’ eyes. She loved her brother, but she had seen him be so focused on revenge and making amends that he forgot to even ask about someone he had fought beside.

 

She could absolutely create a replacement for the Captain America buckler. It would be simple, boring. It would be hardly any effort at all to work in improvements. After all, she knew her people’s most precious resource far better than a colonizer in the Forties had.

 

She just _didn’t want to_.

 

But she understood that she had a duty to Wakanda, and through that duty, to her _king_.

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“A sister may refuse a brother a request if it goes against her heart.” Shuri raised her chin, unintimidated by the big brother she loved to tease about exposed toes in her lab. She gave a silent prayer to the Mother Bast for strength of will. Okoye had made this dilemma between two loyalties look so easy, yet this seemed harder than watching T’Challa fight his challengers had been. “But a loyal subject is bound to the will of her king. So do you make this request as my _brother_ or as my _king_?”

 

“You will always be my sister first, Shuri,” T’Challa replied after a long moment. There was that strange thickness of tone again, on yet another person. Like she would a frustrating project, she examined her brother carefully.

 

She saw the same look in his eyes that he had when showing her the building he had purchased in Oakland for the Outreach Program. She thought of the memories she had watched and the old interviews she had started binging on to try and understand why people would think the things they did about Dr. Stark. She thought of how weighted Baba had looked in the last years of his life and the determination in every line of Okoye’s body as she aimed her spear at her own husband in defense of what was _right_. It occurred to her that maybe she knew how _wanting to do better_ looked on someone, too.

 

“As your sister, I advise against providing more help to Steve Rogers. The debt you believe you owe for your pursuit of vengeance for our father is not to him and continuing to assist him in his endeavors is a betrayal of the ideals Baba spent so much of his last months working towards recognizing. Steve Rogers is a man who will not listen to any who tell him that he is wrong and refuses to acknowledge the rights of anyone who may find themselves in the path of the collateral damage he leaves behind. He is a face for everything Baba feared about the world discovering the truth about Wakanda and everything our uncle and cousin spent years stewing about. Even now, he flaunts the law our father _died_ to see ratified, without regard to potential collateral damage. Arming this man, who claims to be a _hero_ but whose actions show otherwise, is as foolish an idea as your stupid flip-flops and will make you look just as stupid in the long run.”

 

“He’s been good at getting the job done.”

 

“When will you learn that just because something works does not mean it cannot be improved? There is more to being a hero than defeating the bad guy. If you don’t believe me, have Nakia explain it to you. She does it better than me.”

 

“Something you are not good at?”

 

“You couldn’t handle me if I was perfect,” she quipped. Then she set her expression into something resembling solemness. “I understand that the danger incoming is great and that we will need everyone working together to have any hope of succeeding, but he _is_ unworthy of that symbol and the trust that comes with giving him a weapon of my design.” She paused as an idea came to her.

 

“What’s that? I know that look. That’s the one you get before you play one of your tricks!”

 

“I think I may have a way of fulfill both callings. Changing the design will take away the symbol he betrayed with his actions and allow me to hide one of my remote disabling switches in it.”

 

“The ones you developed to prevent Wakandan technology from falling into the wrong hands?”

 

“Just so, my king,” she said, including the crossed arms and slight bow. She grinned when he batted at her a few times. She should make a few memes comparing him to an actual cat. Just for kicks. She grabbed a designing tablet and began working, too distracted by possible rebuilds to worry about maintaining complete focus on her conversation partner. T’Challa was used to it by now, surely. “If I change the design, he will also be more limited. I can take away his range, make him unable to tag team an opponent. That will be useful if he decides that only he knows how things need to be done again. It will need to be similar enough to a shield that he won’t question but different enough that he will be forced to adopt a different style.”

 

“You truly believe him to be an enemy?”

 

T’Challa sounded shocked. Shuri returned her gaze to him. He looked as lost as he had when preparing for Challenge Day. She had to stifle the urge to call for Mama or Okoye. She was too young to handle her big brother looking like _that_. A flash of Barnes’ memory settled behind her vision, steadying her as it steeled her resolve.

 

“Steve Rogers believes himself to be a good man. Everything he does comes back to that belief. He divides the world into two groups with it. Everyone who agrees with him is also good; everyone who doesn’t, isn’t. Because Steve Rogers believes that he is a _good man_. What can a good man do if not the right thing? Would that not make others wrong?” She took a deep breath, silently hoping to emulate Baba with her next words. “ _Believing_ is not the same as _being_. To be a good man, one must show compassion to all, even one’s enemy; one must build bridges, not barriers; one must be honest but not cruel; one must be willing to see worth in all things.”

 

“You’ve been watching _Moulin Rouge_ again, haven’t you?”

 

“Baba has never steered me wrong before.” She gave T’Challa a sad smile. “Why would death change that?”

 

“When did my little sister become so wise?”

 

“Well, one of us had to be, and you were too busy staring at Nakia.”

 

“I do not—”

 

“You do so! It’s cute. Everyone thinks so.”

 

They bickered back and forth as she continued to work. If occasionally T’Challa would regain that lost look, well, Shuri was mature enough to not mention it. Even brothers could be broken, and she was good at fixing broken people.

 

She had so much practice, after all.

 

-= LP =-  
An Ending  
-= LP =-

**Author's Note:**

>  **Fem Power Challenge Information:**  
>  **Fill Number:** 12  
>  **Representation(s):** Shuri; Female in a STEM career; PoC  
>  **Bonus Challenge(s):** Not A Lamp  
>  **Word Count:** 2131 (Story Only); 2147 (Story  & Epigraph)


End file.
